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Jonathan Scott Goldman's Autobiography (submitted 5/15/06)

Twelve Hours and Twenty-Four More

It was about three collective bites into a shared chocolate cake dessert, when my very pregnant wife looked up at me and said: "That was definitely a contraction." This was our final dinner out as a family of two before my wife was scheduled to be induced the next evening. We had chosen a loud, local Italian restaurant.
"Excuse me?!" I said. "I missed, 'I think I might be having a contraction.'"
"I've been feeling something strange all through dinner, but I didn't want to get you excited until I was sure," she said.
"Tell me everything," I insisted. "Describe exactly you what you are feeling." I grabbed my wife's two hands and held them in mine, pushing the chocolate cake aside.
Our bags had been packed and in the trunk of the car for the past two weeks, when our child was due. We had been waiting. The doctor had told us to wait until my wife's contractions occurred every five minutes for an hour before we called her and drove to the hospital.
Not a lot of sleep was had that night. We talked and tossed and turned until about three-thirty a.m., when we finally gave up on the charade of slumber and flipped on the bedroom light. For the next hour or two my wife and I sat in the light, looked at the digital alarm clock, and documented her contractions. Finally we showered, made the call to the doctor, and left for the hospital. It was five-thirty a.m., just about twelve hours from our dinner reservation the night before.
In a little more than twenty-four hours, our baby boy would be born.

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